Safe
by darthsydious
Summary: Anthea brings Mycroft to Molly's after an accident happens nearby. He learns how well he can trust Molly. TRIGGER WARNING: Mentions of self-harm. Mycroft/Molly Friendship pairing. (or goldfish pairing?)


Images flitted back and forth in his mind and he blinked trying to clear his vision of them. Voices blurred together, there were two women, he knew them both, that was good. Their voices seemed far off and muffled.

"He was close to the explosion. He's a little rattled…he mentioned you so I brought him here, it will just for a few hours. Once the club and his home are swept and we get the all-clear-"

"No of course, anything at all, it-it's no trouble, as-as long as he needs. It wouldn't be the first time I've hidden a Holmes here."

"Yes, I thought of that, I know you'll be discreet."

"Of course, no one will know."

The beautiful woman touched his forehead, smoothing his hair. Her hand was gone in a moment, and he could hear her well-shod form retreating. A door was shut and bolted, followed by a sigh and someone sniffling. He could hear running water, and then soft footsteps.

A warm wash-cloth was placed over his head, washing away the dirt on his face. He sighed with relief, and then winced as it reached the cut on his cheek.

"Mycroft Holmes, you're supposed to be careful," Molly Hooper's gentle voice scolded him. "I expect stupidity from him, not you."

"This was unexpected," he said.

"Humph."

"Molly Hooper you are worried for me," he wagged a finger at her.

"Yes I am," she said. He was vaguely aware of blowing a raspberry at her.

"_Dear me,"_ he thought to himself. _"I must be concussed."_ He blinked, trying to clear his vision. "Buggar-all…" he murmured, trying to look at himself properly. "Suit is ruined." He felt up over his head, grimacing. "Need a shower."

"Don't you dare try and stand!" she ordered, pushing him down.

"I'm filthy,"

"I don't care, you've got a concussion, and you need to lie still."

"I need a bath and a cup of tea," he struggled out of her grasp, clumsily getting to his feet. She managed to catch him, worried he'd do himself more harm, stumbling about.

"Alright, alright!" she leaned him against the wall. "You can get cleaned up, but you'll have to let me help you." He lolled his head over to face her, frowning. He blinked his bleary eyes.

"What?"

"I said you can take a shower on the condition that you let me help you."

Mycroft felt his thought process intolerably slow. Probably due to the fact that he was concussed. Or that he was still covered in filth. Either way, he nodded.

"Very well."

He had not realized that this would require that she would see him sans suit. And tie. And…other necessary articles of clothing that keep privates private.

"Oh for pities sake, I work with dead people on a daily basis," she rolled her eyes. "Get in the tub, I won't look."

"I can wash myself," he said stoutly, weaving back and forth.

"You can't even _stand_ by yourself, get in the tub," she turned him around to face the shower, helping him in. "I won't look, I promise, I'll just hold you steady."

"I wish to wash my hair."

"Oh, um, here," she grabbed her shampoo, applying a liberal portion to her hands. "Bend over so I can reach you," he bent his head out of the spray of the shower so she could get the top of his head.

"You're drowning me," he groused.

"Stop moving, just lean against the wall." He had the feeling she'd done this before with his brother.

Mycroft gave up trying to convince Molly to leave him alone. The pathologist was the mothering type and worried less when she was allowed some control. In this case, treating him like a baby seemed to calm her somewhat. She was discreet and made no comment, and he thought sleepily that she was not the type to do so. In his addled brain he thought of when he was young, the insipid school boys in the locker rooms, all laughing at him, his mother scolding him about his weight. He suddenly felt his heart make a sickening flop, and he tried to cover his legs and his arms. With what he didn't know, but perhaps she wouldn't notice the lines of scars. Four on his upper thighs, two on each upper arm. Eight times he lost control and gave in. Eight times he gave way to his emotions. Eight reasons caring was not an advantage.

If she saw, she made no comment. She helped him out of the tub, handing him a towel. Leading him through to her room, she toweled off his hair.

"Stay here," she instructed him, seating him on the edge of her bed.

_Fresh clothes on the door. – A_

Molly tapped out a quick 'thank you' to Anthea before hurrying to the door for the garment bag. She returned to her room only to find Mycroft passed out on the bed, Toby looking somewhat horrified and confused at this lanky, damp stranger taking up a considerable portion of what he felt was his bed. Molly shrugged, somewhat relieved that the elder Holmes was sleeping. Covering him with a blanket, she left him so hoping a good night's rest would set him to rights.

Sunlight streamed in through the window, and Mycroft cracked an eye open. Why hadn't his alarm gone off? Why were the curtains open? Why was the sun up before he was? These and many more questions all ran through his mind and he tried to answer each one as well as he could. Alarm. Obviously he was not at home; ergo he could not be woken by it. The curtains were open because this was not his room, which accounted for the dreadful bed sheets. The sun had risen as it did every morning, and he had slept in. The place he was in was obviously small, small enough that he could hear the kettle boiling from the bedroom. A two bedroom flat, substandard insulation in the walls. He lifted his head from the pillow, seeing a black and white tail twitching. Peering over the end of the bed, he frowned at Molly Hooper's cat, who in turn was staring up at him.

He was at Molly Hooper's. Yes. That was right. How had he gotten here? Anthea drove him. Yes, that he remembered as well. There had been an explosion. Good God! He sat up with a start, instantly regretting it. He was concussed, or was. He needed answers. Swinging his feet over the edge of the bed, he was suddenly struck by another fact: he was naked, or almost. A garment bag hung on the door knob. A gentle knock on the partly-shut door made him start.

"Just me," Molly said softly and Mycroft found he was suddenly uncomfortable. How annoying. He covered his middle, clutching the towel around his waist. "I'm not looking," indeed her eyes were shut as she poked her head through the doorway. "I heard you stirring, the kettle's just boiled, your suit is on the door, Anthea delivered it last night."

"Where is my phone?" he asked.

"Anthea has been taking care of your messages," Molly replied. "She texted me an hour ago, your house and the Diogenes Club are both clear, you can go home any time," she paused. "Breakfast is ready, by the way, if you want a quick bite before you dash." He coughed, somewhat uncomfortable.

"Thank you, that isn't necessary."

"Right, um, I'll leave you to dress." She shut the door, garment bag swinging on the knob.

He felt considerably better, having clean clothes, trust Anthea to be a step ahead of him. He returned to the living room to find Molly folding up his ruined suit.

"Your shoes are by the sofa," she said.

"I cannot stay," he said, frowning at his mobile. He reached for his shoes.

"I thought not," she said. "I can wrap something up for you-"

"No, thank you."

"Mycroft-"

"Thank you, Miss Hooper," he interrupted her. Her demeanor revealed she'd seen the marks, and it was something he did not wish to discuss. "You have been most kind, and I am grateful, indeed, for your help last evening," he did not meet her gaze, quickly tugging on his suit coat. His umbrella was leaning on the wall by the door, so she took it handing it to him, eyes full of worry.

"Mycroft wait-"

"I'm afraid I don't have time," he cut her off.

"Mycroft," she grabbed his arm, keeping him where he was. Her fingers squeezed his thin arm, just enough that he felt the pressure, but it did not hurt. He finally looked at her, eyes forcing out any emotion, returning the blank mask to his face. She quickly looked down at her feet. "I- I know…I mean…last night…in the bath, I mean, I wasn't…looking…but…your scars…um…" he felt his face turn red to the tips of his ears, and he fumbled for words.

"There is nothing to discuss-"

"I'm sorry!" she blurted out, and he blinked.  
"What?"

"I'm sorry…if…I mean…I never meant…with the food, I mean, I always make you something, and if…if it's a trigger or…if I've ever said anything or…please…tell me, I'm dense and I don't think and-" tears rolling down her cheeks, hands shaking as she tried to apologize, tried to put into words what she meant. His hand covered hers and she stopped talking.

"Miss Hooper," he said gently. "My past is…quite full of regrets…I am pleased to say that any encounter with you is not among them. Do you understand?" she nodded, finally looking up at him. She glanced quickly down at his covered arms. "They are long past, I have not…" he paused. "In a long time…" she was quiet, clearly distrustful, rightly so, after all, look who he was related to. "Not since my Sophomore year." She nodded then, relief flooding her face.

"I- I just…" she reached for him then, hugging him outright. "I'm so glad that if you've failed in one thing it was that."

"One cannot fail, if one was not trying to succeed," he said, voice muffled by her hair, he patted her back awkwardly and she pulled away. He was not ready to tell her yet that the marks he'd given himself were given as a punishment, he wanted to hurt himself, not kill himself. It was all long before he'd gotten control of himself, before he allowed himself to become the ice-man.

"Sorry, sorry I'm- I just…" Molly took a breath. "If ever…you need…if you ever feel like…that again…if you want to talk…or don't or just…it's safe here," she said. "I mean I won't ask questions, not if you don't want me to, I won't judge you, I won't…I mean…it's a safe place here, if you want it to be."

Mycroft was quiet then, mouth partly open. He blinked quickly, looking at his shoes, tapping the tip of his umbrella on the floor as he cleared his throat.

"That is generous of you, Miss Hooper, although I imagine you have your reasons for making such an offer," he said, attempting to force the cold back into his voice. She looked at him, arms folded over her middle.

"I do," she said.

"Very well, what will it be to keep you quiet?"

"I just want you to know that someone cares," her voice was soft. "It…it's important that you know that." Mycroft had no answer for her. None that would allow him to keep his cool demeanor. He set the tip of the umbrella on the floor of the kitchen, turning the handle round and round in his hands.

"I will be in touch…" he said at last. "Regarding this…mess, as well as when I have any word on my brother,"

"Just um, you look after yourself," she said quickly. "Don't worry about me."

"It's important that you know," he answered her. She looked up at him, quiet then. "Good day Miss Hooper."


End file.
